


What Little Remained

by AapeliStorm (thelightinthedarkness)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Minor Character Death, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Parent Death, descriptive, more than a drabble less than a ficlet, musings, pained past, the beginning to something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 12:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19198507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightinthedarkness/pseuds/AapeliStorm
Summary: The short beginning to a novel about a troubled relationship between a son and his mother.





	What Little Remained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RavenAurelieChoiseau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenAurelieChoiseau/gifts).



> This is just a thank you to my love, who finally convinced me to finish this book.

The room was small and unadorned. Almost forbidding. Arranged badly, there stood a small desk, a bed, two chairs, and a chest of drawers. There were no pictures, no paintings, no wall decorations whatsoever except for a small, round looking glass which hung above the desk.   
There had once been wallpaper patterned with green vines upon which were randomly glued felt-like applications resembling flowers. What was left now was old, fading, and in some parts, peeling right off.   
No felt flowers remained. As if they had died right along with her will to live.  
  
He was hesitant about moving or touching anything. It all seemed fragile and frozen in a moment of her past. Like some tableau, except no one would be interested in seeing it.   
These were her last moments as told by furniture and objects. Her perfume was still in the air, in fact, as if she had just applied it. That musky, woody scent mixed in terribly with the smell of stale cigarettes and Febreeze.   
  
He was getting a headache. The pounding in his temples was getting increasingly stronger. Paul desperately wanted to open a window but couldn't get the latch to budge. His gaze traveled to the center of the room where her bed was positioned. It looked just slept-in, sheets rumpled and cover thrown to one side. The bedding had what looked like small balls on it, of all shapes and colors.   
On closer inspection he realized they weren't balls.   
"Little balloons," he thought to himself, almost amused. "How unusual for a grown woman to be sleeping on little balloons."

Paul could understand why she had lived like this. He knew her well. Decoration mirrored personality. Be humble to the world, Taoists believe.   
This had also been his mother's motto. Too bad it was all a farce. 

Keep a distance, that had been his. Paul had wrapped his feelings in velvet years ago. Velvet was heavy and soft, and like with light, kept emotions out and didn't let his real sentiments escape. It was an armor he used.   
Just moments before there had been an intrusion and on went that armor again.

"Mr. Nowak?" the nurse had said to him, "I am truly sorry about your loss. Your mother was a fine lady."

He had looked at the nurse with marked indifference. "No, she wasn't, Nurse Scheely. My mother was everything but a fine lady. She was misanthropic, malevolent, and egoistic. _That, Nurse Scheely, is who my mother was._ "   
Consolation was not something he normally gave nor received. Grief, for what it was worth, had little place in his life.


End file.
